remember school days and how we would play
like there was no tomorrow?
now the castles we made
are the price we must pay
or flounder in oceans of sorrow
roaming wild and free, building houses in trees
as worlds waltzed to discordant tunes
like a zephyr through grass,
gilded summer days passed;
left us flayed under Cheshire moons
wooden sword fights and valiant knights;
pirates, the Pan and his Bell,
faded from dreams,
rowed ungentle streams,
to where the real monsters dwell
I’ve climbed faraway trees, seen fair Honah-Lee,
never never thought I’d grow old
now the pied piper calls —
before the last curtain falls,
leafless, I’ll trip into the wold.
First published by Wolf Publishing June, 2015
in her garden
she gathers keepsakes–
the dance of dry leaves
the blue jay–lashes out
at last season’s flower
as she slow walks to the van
in her drive
– Ryan Stone
of many things,
it seems –
of love, to grow
not old –
the moon; but not
The promise of morning and flea market bustle,
rouses tired hands to lay out old friends.
Faces he knows as well as his own
watch with timeless abandon.
He sets each precisely with intimate touch,
soft as forgotten caresses;
gathers their stories, pulling each close
in the bittersweet truth of parting.
Come afternoon, those hands will slow;
kissed cold by the late Autumn air
and a passing whisper in his ear –
somewhere a bell is tolling.
– Ryan Stone
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